Battle Scars
by Little Creek
Summary: Waking up alone, with no clue where you are, can be bad enough without the added pain of being beaten first.


**Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters:** G. Callen, Sam Hanna, Kensi Blye, original characters  
 **Word count:** 3,202  
 **Summary:** Waking up alone, with no clue where you are, can be bad enough without the added pain of being beaten first.  
 **Disclaimer:** None of these characters or their histories are mine. Except Chris and Layla's, of course.

 **A/N:** So this is my first NCIS:LA fic, and my first story for several months, so please forgive any plotholes/out-of-character dialogue or behaviour/poor writing. My only intention was to write something easy to get me back into fanfiction. Also note that I've only watched season one so far.

* * *

 **Battle Scars**

His head hurts. That's the first thing he's aware of. The second is that at least one rib is cracked, he's got blood in his mouth, a dislocated left shoulder, and various other pains throughout his body that he can't diagnose with his eyes shut. When he attempts to open his eyes, he discovers his right eye is swollen nearly completely closed. His face aches, bruises across his cheekbones and jaw. His right knee feels weird, and when he moves it cautiously something clicks, sending bolts of pain up and down his leg. He barely manages to hold back the scream. He's lying on his back, staring up at the trees in a darkening forest, beaten within an inch of his life. And he has no idea who did it.

He calls out for help a couple of times, voice weakened by the sharp pain in his side, but there's no answer. Eventually he manages to sit up, no longer bothering to hold back the noises of pain. There's nobody out here to hear him anyway. He's got a gash above his ear that's obviously bled freely while he was unconscious, although by the time he finds it it's stopped. And if his knee was dislocated, it's not any more. The swelling is bad, though, and he still can't bend it. He awkwardly gets to his feet, hampered by his battered body. Some effort is required to pop his shoulder back in, with assistance from a tree. The only thing to respond to his yell is a flock of birds, that fly up from the bushes in fright. He waits a moment, for his breaths to even out and his heart to slow down. He's alone.

His pockets are empty. No phone, no money, no ID. Whoever did this to him wasn't stupid. Their only dumb move was leaving him alive. He's going to find them, and take them down.

He tears up his over-shirt to use as a sling, tying his left arm to his chest. There's a rough dirt road, probably leading to civilisation, and proper medical attention.

It takes a while before he reaches the main road, and he's soaked in sweat from the exertion and his left leg is quivering from the strain of keeping weight of his damaged knee. His side feels like it's on fire, ribs screaming in protest, and his head pounds in time with his rapid heartbeat. He's in the suburbs of a city, by the look of it, big houses lined up on both sides of the street, small backyards. He stumbles to the door of the first house and knocks, slumping against the wall, trying to breathe through the pain. The woman who opens the door is young, innocent, and panics at the sight of a strange man seconds away from passing out at her feet.

"Chris!" she yells, backs away from the door but doesn't close it.

He swallows, feeling sick and dizzy. The wall isn't going to keep him upright much longer.

"I won't hurt you," he slurs, knowing it won't help ease her fear but trying anyway.

A man appears behind her, older by a few years, short hair, clean shaven. On seeing the wounded man he tenses, pulls the girl away from the door, stands between her and the stranger.

"Are you ok?" he asks, wary but concerned.

"I... I need help."

He feels himself tipping, falling, and then everything goes black.

* * *

The icy weight settling onto his wounded shoulder startles him awake, and he's trying to fight before he's fully conscious.

"Whoa, take it easy, you're safe, buddy," says Chris, stepping back to a safe distance, but he's already got a split lip.

"Where am I?" he demands, trying to ignore the way the world is sliding in and out of focus now that he's sitting up.

"You're in my house. You collapsed on our porch about ten minutes ago, demanded we don't call an ambulance, and then lost consciousness."

He squints, shakes his head and regrets it. It feels like his brain has come loose inside his skull.

"Hey, man, maybe you should lie down..."

* * *

"We gotta take him to hospital."

"Layla, he told us not to."

"This is ridiculous. And we should be calling the cops, as well."

"No... no cops," he protests, but he doesn't try moving his head this time.

He doesn't miss the look that passes between the two before they approach him.

"Alright, but you gotta tell us who you are," Chris says.

"And why we shouldn't call anyone," Layla adds.

He takes a moment to formulate a reply. He thinks of lying, and mentally hits himself in the head for the thought. Where did that come from?

"I... I can't remember what happened. Whoever did this to me must have hit me hard enough to knock some memories out. My name..."

 _Writing. First name: G. Feelings of longing and frustration._ The memory is brief.

"I know it starts with G, but I can't remember the rest."

"So, if we're not allowed to call the police or take you to hospital, what are we supposed to do with you?" asks Layla.

"I don't know. I don't know why I can't go to the cops or the hospital, I just know it's a bad idea. You guys gotta trust me on this."

Layla scoffs, but she's still nervous, standing behind her brother's shoulder.

"Trust you? We don't even know you!"

"I know, and I'm sorry. I just... I need a place to lay low for a couple of days, just to heal up."

Chris is chewing on his bottom lip.

"This is temporary. Any trouble, any at all, and we'll call the cops on you."

He only just prevents himself from nodding in agreement.

"Deal," he says instead.

Their parents are out of town on business, Layla tells him as she's rinsing the blood off his face. Chris has just been accepted into the Navy. Layla herself works at the local hospital.

"You're a nurse?" he asks, wincing as her fingers find a tender spot.

Layla smiles and shakes her head.

"I work in the cafeteria."

* * *

"Hey, man, wake up."

He's awake in a split second, even though the words were spoken quietly. It takes him a moment to remember to breathe. His heart races so hard it hurts, slamming into his ribs.

"Whoa, man, are you ok?" Chris asks, and he's learned from his mistake, keeping out of arm's reach.

He groans, right hand holding his head that really didn't appreciate the sudden change in altitude, and has to work hard to slow his breathing. Every gasp sends sparks of pain through his side. It's dark in the living room. He doesn't know how long he's been asleep. He'd passed out halfway through Chris's first aid attempts. The guy knew what he was doing, but the pain was still so bad that he'd checked out. Corner-store painkillers just didn't cut it.

"G?"

Chris is wary, and rightfully so. _A file behind bars. Callen, G. Running out of time. An intense and crushing feeling of loss._

"My last name's Callen," he says, confused by his own feelings.

Chris takes a moment to file that away and then nods.

"Why'd you wake me?" Callen asks, keeping his breaths shallow in an attempt to ease the pain.

"You were dreaming," Chris says, "Looked like some bad stuff. You were pretty distressed."

"Help me lay down."

Chris supports his upper body as he lies back against the couch, trying to keep any sounds inside. Callen remembers other times, before this, struggling with a battered body. He hated it every time.

"What time is it?" he asks, once he's settled again.

"About two."

"I wake you?"

"Nah," Chris lies.

Callen lets it go. He's too tired anyway. But somewhere at the back of his foggy mind is a dark memory, with claws and teeth ready to sink into him again the moment he closes his eyes. He can feel it; the tension in his body as he involuntarily resists the pull of sleep, the undeniable fear running through his veins. He doesn't know what it is he was dreaming of, but it's not done with him yet.

"Callen?"

He reins in the attempted sigh before it can cause too much pain to his cracked ribs.

"I'm good."

* * *

Callen tries to relax. His muscles still feel tight and sore. He'd never really relaxed after the nightmare, even though he eventually drifted off between one blink and the next. He'd woken at dawn with an overwhelming feeling of horror that had him struggling to his feet before his injuries brought him crashing back to the floor, and to reality. It had taken a long time before he could breathe again, and longer before he could pull himself back onto the couch, just in time before Layla had come downstairs and he'd been able to paste on a smile and pretend he hadn't nearly had a panic attack from a dream he couldn't remember.

"You hungry?" Chris asks, hair still damp from his after-workout shower.

"Sure," says Callen, although he isn't really.

Pain tends to ruin his appetite. But he eats the food he's offered, in exchange for more inadequate pain relief.

* * *

He wakes from a fitful doze to the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. Through the large windows in the living room he can see it's a black car, tinted windows, and he feels his heart start to race. He forces himself to stand up, swaying woozily, waiting for the world to right itself and for the roaring in his ears to dissipate. Once he feels steadier he limps into the kitchen, where he finds his hosts, who both looked surprised to see Callen, bracing himself against the door frame.

"Don't suppose you have a gun handy, do you?" he asks Chris.

"What? Why?" Layla asks, confusion laced with fear in her voice.

Chris glances past him. He's tense.

"Car just pulled up outside," Callen explains quickly, "I think it's the guys who did this to me."

"Stay right here," Chris tells Layla, hand on her arm for emphasis, before heading upstairs.

"How do you know it's them?" Layla whispers to Callen.

"Bad feeling. Where's your phone?"

His left leg is already aching from holding his weight. There's a knock at the door. Layla's eyes are wide. She pulls out her mobile phone.

"Call the police," Callen says quietly.

She nods and starts to dial. Chris slinks back into the kitchen, rifle in hand. Callen lifts an eyebrow.

"Dad and I go hunting sometimes," Chris explains, voice hushed.

He cautiously hands the gun to Callen, who nods in thanks and motions them both down behind the kitchen bench. Layla's struggling to keep her voice down as she talks into the phone, panic quickly overwhelming her. Chris crouches beside her, hand resting on her back, a comforting gesture. The door, unlocked, swings open. Callen presses against the wall and points his rifle at the first man through the door. He's big, bald, black, and pointing a gun at Callen.

"Whoa, gee!" the stranger says, and the gun wavers, lowers.

The bullet slams into the wall just to the left of the man's head. He flinches, looks shocked, but he's taking one hand off his pistol to hold up in a "stop" gesture. Callen reloads anyway, hands moving on instinct. There's movement in the doorway.

"Sam?"

"Kensi, stay back," the black guy says warningly, glancing at the woman taking cover beside the door.

She's armed as well, and just like "Sam", looks surprised when she sees Callen.

"What's going on?" Sam asks Callen, slowly, not moving at all.

"I know who you are," Callen growls back.

"Yeah? And who's that?"

"The people who tried to kill me. Too bad for you, I'm still alive. Now drop your weapons."

His left leg is threatening to buckle and he grits his teeth.

"Put your weapons down, right now, or I'll put a bullet in you both."

Sam and Kensi exchange a glance, and then slowly lower their guns.

"Keep your hands where I can see them!" Callen snaps at Kensi, who's still half-hidden behind the wall, "Walk in here, slowly."

She does, joining her friend, both with their hands up.

"Step away from the guns," Callen instructs next, and they obey.

He's not going to be on his feet much longer. The room has started a slow spin and his left shoulder aches from the strain of keeping the weapon pointed at the criminals. His head's pounding.

"Chris, I got 'em," he calls out, surprised by how weak his voice sounds.

Chris steps into the room. There's something new in Sam and Kensi's eyes, like realisation, and then relief.

"Cops are on the way," Chris says, then notes Callen's condition with worried eyes, "You want me to watch them for a minute?"

G wants to say no. But his body demands he says yes. He's so close to collapsing.

"Alright."

He lowers the rifle, tries not to gasp at the pain in his abused shoulder muscles as they're finally allowed to relax. Sam's jaw clenches, and he looks like he wants to move.

"Stay right where you are," Chris warns, eyes on them as he takes the rifle.

Callen forces himself to move from his position against the wall, his right knee refusing to bend at all, left leg nearly giving way from exhaustion.

"Did you do that to him?" he hears Sam asking Chris as he stumbles out of sight.

Layla does her best to slow his descent to the floor. Callen ends up propped against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He knows he's pushed himself too hard, and now his body is making him pay for it. All he wants to do is curl up and sleep. Everything hurts.

"I really think you need to go to hospital," says Layla softly, crouched at his side.

He'd nod in agreement, but he's trying really hard not to move. Voices in the living room are getting loud, angry, confused, and then abruptly Chris is apologising and the big guy is crouched beside Callen, looking worried.

"Get away from me."

He's horrified to hear how slurred his words are, and he has no strength in his right arm to push Sam away, and his attempt at standing is another experience in agony and nearly blacking out.

"Don't fight me, buddy," Sam's saying firmly, and his hand rests on Callen's good shoulder, steadying him.

"They're NCIS," Layla assures him from his other side, "They're your friends. You're safe."

"He's in shock," says Chris.

Kensi's on the phone, but her voice is too distant for Callen to make out the words.

"If you know me," Callen murmurs, looking wearily up at Sam, "tell me, what's my first name?"

The pain finally overwhelms him before he can hear Sam's answer, and he blacks out, falling into a sea of disjointed memories.

* * *

 _Running. Fighting. He was undercover. And then his cover was blown. Beaten. Pain. Falling. Darkness._

"Settle down now. You're safe here."

 _Sam. He knows Sam. He didn't before, in the house. He was afraid._

"I'm with you, G."

 _Callen, G. He never knew his first name. He thinks he might be crying, silent tears escaping from under his closed eyelids. Gentle hands, gentle voices._

"It's gonna be ok."

* * *

Soft voices break through the haze of sleep, and Callen lets himself surface slowly. The pain is gone. His right leg feels heavy, and he recognises the feeling as it being in a cast. He blinks open tired eyes and takes in his surroundings. Judging by his improved eyesight, the swelling on his face has gone down. The head of his hospital bed is raised slightly, IV in his left arm, Sam and Kensi conversing quietly beside his bed. He listens for a moment but can't quite hear their words.

"Did we get 'em?" he asks, voice weak.

His team members turn together towards him.

"Yeah, we got them," Sam says with a relieved smile.

"Kids alright?"

"A little shook up, but ok. How about you? Brain back in one piece?"

Callen grimaces at the reminder. It's kind of disorienting, thinking back to the time he didn't even recognise his friends.

"I'm good," he assures them, "How long have I been here?"

"About fourteen hours," Kensi says.

And he was more or less unconscious for all of them. He takes a hesitant deep breath, pleased to note that the pain in his side hardly bothers him when he does.

"You needed your sleep, G," Sam tells him.

Callen doesn't bother responding. He's still foggy, painkillers messing with his thoughts, but he remembers everything – both good and bad. He's feeling drowsy again though, and of course his friends notice.

"Looks like you need more," Kensi says, grinning, "Don't let Sam keep you awake."

He manages a soft chuckle in return as she heads out the door. Sam doesn't follow. Callen fixes him with a steely gaze, the best he can manage under the circumstances.

"You were pretty out of it, at the house," Sam says softly, and Callen knows what's coming.

"Concussion," he replies shortly.

"The nightmares?" Sam prods, carefully.

"Concussion."

"You were asking about-"

"Sam."

There's enough meaning in the single word that Sam stops mid-sentence and looks resigned.

"You know Hetty's gonna make you talk to Nate, right?" he asks.

Callen makes a show of getting comfortable in the bed, letting out as deep a sigh as he can manage without hurting his ribs.

"Standard debriefing, Sam," he says lightly.

The corner of Sam's mouth goes up. He pulls up the chair and sits down, booted feet propped up on the mattress beside Callen, picking up a book from the table.

"What are you doing?" Callen asks, although it's obvious.

Sam just flaps a hand vaguely at him.

"Reading," he replies.

Callen rolls his eyes for effect but he's smiling contentedly as he closes his eyes. Shortly afterwards he's struggling to free himself from another dark dream, caught between asleep and awake, unable to escape.

"I've got your back, buddy," he hears Sam saying quietly, and there's a hand on his arm.

"We both do," adds Kensi.

He's not sure when Kensi showed up again, and he thinks he's probably imagining things, but it doesn't matter either way. He knows the words are true. And he lets go of conciousness once again, finding himself finally reliving happier memories of friendly banter with his friends.

 **END**

* * *

 **A/N:** Also, forgive the cheesy ending. Endings are not my speciality at all! As always, thanks for reading and please leave me a review. :)


End file.
